The Whits
Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested.
Regret
Regret
time’s sands swirl
the spinners spin, our marionette lines
twisting and entwined
caught upon each other’s lives
loss now stains my mottled
once proud face, scaffolding
slack and slipping ever downward
with fogged eyes failing in their folds
summer’s sun a distant memory
and winter’s icy doorway within reach;
so much I should have said, but
words failed, falling stillborn from my lips
immedicable wounds now fester, layered
scars purple and puckered accuse
as I hum some dreary dirge
to the beating wings of carrion birds
no refuge anymore for the damned
crisp plumes billow, time gone for redemption
stood silent over a frozen hole
muttering prayers in an angry landscape
.. goodbye old friend